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    Avenging Steel: The First Collection
    Avenging Steel: The First Collection
    Avenging Steel: The First Collection
    Ebook398 pages5 hours

    Avenging Steel: The First Collection

    By Ian Hall

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    Edinburgh, October 1940...
    When Nazi troops march triumphantly along Princes Street, James Baird feels drawn to watch the parade.
    It’s his punishment, for at 20 years old, and a Philosophy student at Edinburgh University, he is ashamed he has done nothing in the defense of his country.
    Behind him, he cannot look at the high ramparts of Edinburgh Castle, for they are festooned with garish red swastika banners.
    Sickened by the music and swaggering Nazis, James soon takes refuge in the Edinburgh University bar, determined to drown his sorrows before returning home.
    As his new role in German-controlled Edinburgh is revealed, James is determined to fight the oppressors in any way he can.
    When he is approached by a member of Military Intelligence (the newly formed S.O.E.), James at last finds something he can get his teeth into. But as he begins life as an undercover agent, each day brings new challenges, and increased danger. Once committed to the S.O.E., life for James Baird will never be the same again.
    In Avenging Steel, we follow his adventures as a nation struggles against the rule of Nazi jackboots, and begin to rebel against German rule.

    Thus begins Avenging Steel, a new WW2 Alternative History series set in the streets of Edinburgh, and the countryside of Scotland.

    “Avenging Steel: The First Collection”, is the first 3 novellas in the series, all together in a bumper, budget bundle.
    Includes...
    Avenging Steel 1: The Fall of Edinburgh
    Avenging Steel 2: The Nuclear Option
    Avenging Steel 3: The Final Solution

    Watch out for “Avenging Steel 4: The Tree of Liberty”

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherIan Hall
    Release dateJul 21, 2016
    ISBN9781370429479
    Avenging Steel: The First Collection
    Author

    Ian Hall

    Ian Hall is a former Commander Officer of No. 31 Squadron (1992-4), as well as being the editor and writer of the Squadron Association's three-times-a-year 32-page newsletter. He is the author of Upwards, an aviation-themed novel currently available as a Kindle download. This is his first full-length historical study, having previously penned a 80-page history of No 31 Squadron's early Tornado years.

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      Book preview

      Avenging Steel - Ian Hall

      On 10th May, 1940, Germany attacked the British and French troops.

      At that time, Britain had half a million men in France.

      By 4th June 1940, Britain had rescued 330,000 men (British and French) from the defensive bubble around Dunkirk.

      Between 15th and 25th June 1940, they rescued another 190,000 through Operation Ariel from French coasts and ports.

      In the short Battle of France, Britain had left behind 70,000 men, 450 tanks, 2500 artillery pieces, 85,000 vehicles, and 600,000 tons of ammunition, fuel and stores.

      The figures show Britain had 500,000 men for its defense… but with little arms, armour and ammunition to fight. Britain was ripe for invasion, and everyone knew it.

      Churchill spoke…

      … we shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing grounds, we shall fight in the fields and in the streets, we shall fight in the hills; We shall never surrender…

      On 16 July 1940 Hitler issued Führer Directive No. 16, setting in motion preparations for a landing in Britain. He prefaced the order by stating…

      "As England, in spite of her hopeless military situation, still shows no signs of willingness to come to terms, I have decided to prepare, and if necessary to carry out, a landing operation against her. The aim of this operation is to eliminate the English Motherland as a base from which the war against Germany can be continued, and, if necessary, to occupy the country completely."

      On the 16th August the first waves of German paratroopers descended on rural England. The next day, under the cover of the Luftwaffe, tanks and armored vehicles drove ashore in numerous locations.

      Within a month Germany had captured London, Birmingham and Manchester.

      A month later, Churchill’s much vaunted Battle of Britain was over.

      Churchill spoke to the British people from a fleeting headquarters in Ireland…

      … let us not consider this a retreat, not a farewell to our homeland, but as a gathering for a new offensive. And let me make this promise to Herr Hitler; we will return…

      Thus begins a brand-new Alternative History series… Avenging Steel

      Avenging Steel

      Part One: The Fall of Edinburgh

      1. The First Flagellation

      I remember the day the Germans marched into Edinburgh like it was yesterday.

      It was exactly one week after my twentieth birthday, Tuesday 22nd October, 1940.

      Apart from the Nazis in their grey uniforms, Princes Street was perhaps the quietest I’d ever seen it, autumnal trees shedding their leaves like tears, the traitorous sky above shone blue and cloudless.

      And yet still some Edinburgh residents turned out to see the spectacle. I must admit I was one of them, curious, searching for some remnant of reason why our own men had been beaten so quickly by these smiling grey automatons. I looked at each face under their coal-scuttle helmets, and wondered what made them so much better than our soldiers, quickly scattered into the hills like so many modern-day Bonnie Prince Charlies.

      I remember my own emotion, my own personal feeling of shame. I had done nothing to stop them myself, so how could I possibly set the blame on the soldiers who had fought so bravely against the German onslaught. Overcome with overwhelming tanks and artillery, with theirs so cruelly abandoned at Dunkirk just weeks before, how could they have stopped the Nazi juggernaut? Poland had fallen in just three weeks. Mighty France had surrendered in five. Our own forces had fought for seven weeks against the Nazi onslaught, then fled across the Atlantic Ocean to Canada.

      Churchill’s much vaunted ‘Battle of Britain’ had been a pipedream, blown away as quickly as our resistance.

      I, however, had stayed safely in the hallowed halls of Edinburgh University, my own advancement considered loftier than the humble defense of my own country. I knew would have to deal with that particular morsel at a much later date. There was no doubt that if I had not directly helped bring this on, me and my similarly minded academic comrades had certainly done nothing to stop it.

      I thought of my father in Palestine, fighting in the desert against the Hun horde, the conglomeration of Axis countries we now referred to simply as ‘Jerry’. I took some encouragement from his deployment, away from the fighting here at home. He’d never surrendered; he’d never fled to Canada.

      As I heard the first distant strains of music, I now realized I waited to see the Nazi procession, a self-delivered punishment for my inactivity, the first flagellation to atone for my previous misdeeds.

      Or more accurately… my lack of deeds.

      I stood on the garden side of Princes Street looking down the wide road and its shiny tramlines, my back to high Edinburgh Castle, my eyes unable to deal with the huge Nazi insignia now festooned from its ancient battlements. The shops before me were closed, all of them, their boarded up windows a remembrance of the brief street fighting of the last week, the gossamer threads of resistance, the brave heroes who had fired their guns for a few fleeting moments, then vanished from the streets. I recall sitting in the University buildings, head immersed in some technical book as if the pages could dull my senses to the random shots, the sporadic gunfire of a retreating and broken army.

      The shopfronts had been taken by the Germans, their long blood-red banners dripping from high windows, the pristine colors degrading the grey stone even further. The sun reflected from the huge swastikas where proud tattered Union flags had flown just days earlier. Somehow the gaudy Nazi colors greyed the scene, making it monochrome before a picture was ever taken; the red banners leaching whatever color remained in the stone, leaving them sterile.

      I knew I would never shop on Princes Street again; the appeal had been torn away, replaced by a reminder of my own complicity in my country’s defeat. I could picture a line of new cafés, offering the conquering heroes a view of their newest conquest, as they had done in Paris, just four months previously.

      When the marching band approached, I resisted the urge to run from my vantage point, to escape the final ignominy of my own personal surrender. I looked around; there was no wide-armed blue-uniformed policemen ushering eager children from the streets. My fellow Edinburgh residents stood sullenly on the pavements with no urge to see the band before they approached. We accepted its looming advance, yet perhaps hoped it would never arrive.

      My skin crawled against the shifting of familiarity, the dichotomy of sounds, the basic longing for a memory which had been snatched from me, replaced by this alien presence. Considering how many times I’d stood as a child, as a teenager, my heart racing, my mind dancing with the sounds of the oncoming tartan-covered pipe band. I’d felt giddy and excited, my core lifted by the Scottish-ness of it all.

      In precisely that moment, as I stood immobile like a deer caught in headlights, the full comprehension of surrender jarred me like a hammer blow. Today I would witness no Scottish parade. This would be no celebration of our traditions, paraded in front of me like some elaborate people’s opera… no familiar high skirl of pipes, no chanter drone, no rousing tunes of war.

      This procession was not an Edinburgh Festival March.

      My head reluctantly turned; the need to assuage my curiosity overcoming my reticence to acknowledge the passing of an era.

      In the brilliant sunshine that only northern climes can provide, an immaculately uniformed grey drum major marched in front, a red sash across his chest, but there any similarity with old memories ended. The helmet of this new leader was polished silvery grey; his weird manic goosestep looked awkward and staccato compared to the confident swish and swagger of tartan kilts we were familiar with. The brass band behind him played strange tunes which seemed to hurt my ears, and I grimaced in recoil. I sensed we all did.

      The bass drone of the pipes was gone, replaced by the low gears of the tanks following the band, their tracks making a crunching sound against the tarmac street and tramlines. I felt the growing vibration in my very soul; it was the grinding of our freedom, the destruction of our way of life. As the first tanks passed me, I sensed the pulverization of the history of my people under their screeching tracks.

      Heads and shoulders of dark men thrust forth from their mechanical insides, looking around in wonder, ignoring us, the people out to see them. They gazed at the high castle shining in the bright sunshine behind me, their faces confident, proud.

      The expressions of victors.

      Then armored cars and unfamiliar vehicles filled with gaudily dressed officers. Fancy grey uniforms filled with oppressive men with veneer smiles, looking past me, looking at the symbol of their victory, the battlements of once proud Edinburgh Castle.

      As goose-stepping grey men marched behind the armored cars, I turned away, pushing politely past the thin line of onlookers, past the tall red Nazi banners tied to the railings of Princes Street Gardens. I looked for the nearest opening to retreat down into the gardens, but they were locked, guarded by German soldiers. Resisting the overwhelming desire to run, I casually walked against the direction of the parade, my eyes fixed on the paving stones in front of me, not wanting to catch the eye of the soldiers lining the railings. I was desperate to get away from Princes Street; at that moment I would have hopped on a tramcar to the moon.

      I wanted to get out of Edinburgh, away from the uniforms, away from the bloody banners, away from my own guilt. I felt tears in my eyes, and I rubbed them away, determined that they would never return until my country was free once again.

      I walked up the Mound, and into the old city. The streets were deserted, as if a plague had struck, the sharp shadowed streets holding their sweating victims inside. Suddenly I knew my objective, my subconscious feet had driven me along accustomed streets towards my sanctuary; the cool rooms of Edinburgh University. I sought familiar faces rather than the strangers I had witnessed today. I needed the friendly voices of men with similar feelings of guilt; men who, like me, had hidden in the darkness of academia too long.

      I’m getting out of town, Raymond said, the beer glass on the dirty table was empty, the sparse rings on its insides betraying the speed of its consumption.

      Where to? I asked.

      My parent’s place, Auchtermuchty.

      It was my round, but I still had half a pint left in my glass. I determined to make it last more than a minute before buying more. I suppose I should get out too. I mused before taking another gulp. But mum’s place is in town, I’d need somewhere safe to go. I left my words hanging, but Raymond didn’t pick up on my hint. Fife was hardly at the ends of the earth, yet it would still be out of Edinburgh. Faced with leaving town, I started to wonder what I’d do for a living. The feeling of doubt didn’t sit comfortably; I hadn’t worked a day in my life.

      I was brought back to reality by Raymond’s chinking my glass with his. Surprised, I found mine also empty, yet could not recall finishing it. Charlie! I shouted towards the bar, waving my glass and two extended fingers.

      I remember sitting, having three more drinks, yet have no recollection of another word we spoke.

      Absorbed in my own problematic world, I walked home, neither noticing nor caring of German soldiers on every corner. With my coat collars pulled round my chin against the cold October breeze, I walked straight across the Meadows, once the garden of my childhood, now suddenly bereft of patrons. I saw the windows of our apartment from half a mile away, and homed in on their welcoming presence like a pigeon coming home to roost.

      Bruntsfield is one of the better parts of Edinburgh’s growing suburbs, and rooms had been sought after for many years, being just a mile or so from the city center. Upon turning the corner I passed the café on the corner, walked past Mister Teaser’s violin workshop, arriving at number 9, my home for all of my twenty years.

      I unlatched the main door with my castle key, pushing its heavy bulk inwards, and strode into the pitch dark common hallway. The interior square staircase was illuminated only by the large skylight four floors above, and provided scant lighting in the late afternoon. Fortunately I did not need it; memory filled the void that nature could not, and I had no hesitation in climbing to the first floor, pulling myself up the black railing. The cold stone steps were worn from generations of use, and my feet slid onto their smooth curves with a sigh of relief. On the first level, I unlocked the door and pushed the weighty contraption into the apartment beyond, its thick red curtain swinging into the hallway.

      James, is that you?

      Yes, Mum, I swung the heavy door closed, making sure the catch held, and the curtain didn’t get caught up. The thick maroon velvet buffeted against the draughts, an essential element of our apartment’s insulation.

      Have you eaten?

      No. I knew that some food would appear on a plate within the next half hour, a miracle of left-overs and the proverbial vegetables.

      I hung my coat on the stand, and walked past the serene workings of the tall grandfather clock. I had never known of a time when it was not there. I had watched its low polished brass pendulum for hours, and at the age of eight, had proudly been allowed to wind it up for the very first time. That job now lay with my younger sister, Frances. I heard the strains of jazz swing from behind her closed door. Her collection of 78’s already eclipsed my own.

      Mother was at the sink, the dimming light from the large window silhouetting her against the Meadows beyond. I walked to her, embracing her from behind, resting my face in her escaped curls. I went to Princes Street today.

      She turned, pushing me away from the embrace. And to the pub too I see.

      I accepted her recrimination, yet still corrected her. The Student Union. In my mind there was a distinct difference; a pub was for browsing, working-men’s drunken tomfoolery, the Student Union was a lofty place of researched, educated debate.

      They still sell beer, Mother chided. Then her thin lips lost some of their strident appearance. What was it like? Princes Street?

      I almost cried as I began my recollection. Almost.

      Frances came into the kitchen as I was explaining, and hung at the door ear-wigging. At fourteen she was somewhat up to speed with events, yet still tied to her own world. I made no effort to censor my words; it was now a reality we all lived in.

      I didn’t attend University the rest of the week. I had no desire to put myself at the root of my treason, and rationalized that such classes might have been curtailed anyway.

      On Saturday morning, loud knocking on the apartment door roused us from our usual morning.

      The person outside used the iron rapper, but the insistence and volume of his labors hammered along the hallway. In all my life, I had never heard the door so abused.

      My mother brushed Frances and I into our rooms, steadied herself, brushed herself down, then opened the door. I didn’t follow her instructions, but peeked out into the hallway. Beyond her stood a German officer. Mizzus Baird?

      Mother nodded.

      I am Captain Metzler. Our records show that James Baird lives here.

      He’s my son.

      Can I speak to him please?

      With some reluctance she retreated back up the hallway. It’s for you.

      I nodded and moved past her. In the doorway the officer watched our every move. A soldier behind him had a levelled machine gun pointing up the hallway. I’m not sure if I had even seen such a threatening sight. I’m James Baird. I didn’t feel like talking against a loaded gun, and I resented the intimidating pose. In mere seconds my mood changed from fear to loathing.

      You will come with us.

      I’ll get my coat. I turned without his permission to the stand, slowly pulling first my jacket, then my coat. Lastly, more in defiance than necessity, I tugged my scarf free, and wrapped it round my neck; Edinburgh University colors, sky blue and maroon, with tramlines of white and black.

      Where are you taking him? My mother suddenly clung to my arm, her grip insisting and tight.

      He didn’t even answer; just motioned with his head as if talking English to us plebs were a chore. I gave Mum a hug, then gently prized her fingers away. I’ll be fine mum, I’ve done nothing wrong.

      As I walked down the stairs, I glanced back at the doorway, now filled with mother and sister Frances huddled together. I wondered if I’d ever see them again.

      A Feeling of Hopelessness

      George Street runs parallel to Princes Street, a hundred yards north, along a ridge a mile long. It made sense that the Germans loved the rectangular layout of the new town, its regimented streets and alleys were filled with pubs and high offices.

      Taken to the second floor of a deserted solicitor’s office, I was surprised to see Professor Grieg, a faculty member of the University. He looked up when I was ushered inside, yet stayed silent. He continued so until the door was closed behind me, Captain Metzler and his stooge disappearing somewhere outside. In the small room, chairs sat on either side of a plain empty desk.

      Sit down, James.

      I took note of his cagey demeanor, and wondered if we were being listened to; it would account for his unusual reticence. I too remained silent, looking around the room. It was not becoming for a student to question a lecturer.

      I’ve been set as a member of a local steering committee. He said, pacing behind the desk. Like his lectures, his delivery was slow, methodical, every word carefully considered before speaking. Amongst many other things, we have the task of working with local businesses, directing our students towards gainful employment.

      ‘Gainful employment’. There was a phrase to send goosebumps to any student. And how does that involve me? I was in third year reading Philosophy, I considered myself hardly likely to be the first pick for any task.

      It’s a University policy, done at the highest level. Grieg began. Your father is in the army, yes?

      I nodded, frowning. He’s an officer in the Scots Greys, Palestine.

      Then if his wages haven’t stopped already, they soon will. The Germans will take over the financial institutions; without your cooperation in this program your family will be de-funded.

      Reality’s cold hands clutched at my heart; I would be set to work. Instantly I pictured myself working in a potato field, up to my knees in cold cloying mud; I almost shivered at the prospect. Do I have a choice?

      He looked at a list printed on a piece of paper. Some of the lines already had pencil lines drawn through them. "You’ve been assigned to The Scotsman."

      Edinburgh’s biggest newspaper. Is that my only option?

      Grieg grinned, looking down the list. Deal’s butchers, Edinburgh Transport, van driver… do you get the idea?

      "I’ll take the job at The Scotsman, thank you."

      I thought you would.

      In an instant I had accepted my new position. There seemed little point in rejecting the offer, perhaps drawing prying German eyes to my Mother and sister. I was now the man of the house, and I had to face up to my new responsibilities. Will the University continue with classes?

      Grieg smiled. This job will be in addition to your studies.

      When do I start?

      Tomorrow morning, nine o’clock. Go downstairs to Trudy at the desk at the door, she’ll get you sorted out with an Identity Card.

      I already have the University one. My matriculation card had been my proud possession for three years.

      I knew by the slow shake of his head what he would say. Worthless. You’re in a different world now, James.

      My new Identity Card showed the German eagle, its swastika, all the words in German apart from my name and address. The formal stamp was crooked, its rectangle going over the lines. I pocketed it and looked for Captain Metzler, who was nowhere to be seen; obviously I had to make my own way home.

      As I walked along the street, airplanes flew overhead. I had no need to look to see if they were all German; the time had long passed since the RAF flew over Edinburgh. Awkward looking Policemen stood on street corners, their uniforms blue, faces familiar, but the pristine swastika armbands branded them as a ‘turned’ force in the city.

      I turned down Frederick Street to see the silhouette of Edinburgh Castle high on the rocks. The huge swastika banners rippled in the morning breeze. I swear I felt physically sick, the sight repelled me so much.

      As I walked up Lothian Road, it fully sank into my bones that Edinburgh was now in occupied territory, any signs of resistance long crumbled, the Royal Air Force conspicuous by their enforced absence. It had been three days since we had heard Churchill’s voice on the radio, another rousing torrent of…

      "the Empire will rise, and free once more the mother who gave birth to it"

      I’d heard a few versions of the now famous oration, and under present circumstances it failed to move me. ‘fight them on the beaches’ had been just a short two months ago. Fight them in the hedgerows had lasted barely two weeks. When the tanks had thrust through Scotland, there weren’t too many hedgerows still standing.

      We actually knew a fair bit, what we’d picked up in gossip, from retreating soldiers, deserters, and rushed phone calls to panicked friends. The BBC had long packed their bags to Ireland, the politicians and King too. Not that we cared unduly about them; there’s a long four hundred miles between Edinburgh and Buckingham Palace.

      I was about to cross the street at my usual point, just past Tollcross when a hand gripped my arm. My assailant pulled me onward and away from the busy junction. What’s going on? I asked, but my question was answered when a German staff car, standing still at the tram lines blew into a thousand pieces. Thrown round the corner into Lochrin Terrace, my rescuer let go my arm and ran. Almost immediately, I met a German soldier, face determined, brooking no nonsense.

      Papiere! He held a struggling man roughly by the arm, and seemed in two minds as how to deal with the two of us. In the end he let the man go, throwing him to the ground. My pristine papers were already in my hand. I just wanted it all to go away.

      But the man got up and ran.

      I’d never been close to gunshots before, just heard the distant reports. The machine gun just six feet away literally blasted in my eardrums, bullet cases tinkled onto the pavement, all brass and shiny.

      The man staggered maybe ten yards before the hail of bullets ground him down. He died in a pathetic dance, falling heavily onto the curb. If the machine gun hadn’t killed him, his skull hitting the stone certainly did.

      Go! The soldier shouted at me. I shook in fright, then walked away, my feet seemingly reluctant, my eyes seeing the man fall time and time again. By the time I got back to Barclay Terrace, I’d calmed outwardly, but my heart still raced. I’d just witnessed my first resistance act in Edinburgh, well anywhere really. I stood outside Mr. Teaser’s violin shop and tried to calm down before going up the stairs. The window display of old fiddles and scattered sheet music seemed to ground me, although what I really wanted was a stiff glass of whisky from the Golf Tavern round the corner.

      I turned up at The Scotsman office the next morning, my first University class was at one, and the two were not that far apart, just a short walk up the Bridges.

      The Scotsman’s office had always been an architectural favorite of mine, its baronial towers leaning over the smoky Waverley railway station far below. It took a fair bit of mental attitude to walk through the doors, but as I walked to the front desk, I felt my confidence grow.

      James Baird, reporting for work, I said to the coiffured lady behind the high oak desk. I was about to offer more, but she was already searching a handwritten list.

      Yes, I’ve got you, third floor. David Paton is the name on the door you’ll be looking for.

      David Paton, right, I looked around, finding steps upward, and I set off, my nervousness returning. The third floor sat in the eaves of the building, the angled ceiling attesting to the fact that I couldn’t climb any higher.

      David Paton was an elderly, balding man, whose teeth clung tightly to an empty pipe in the corner of his mouth, which he worried and sucked on repeatedly. He did not seem surprised to see me.

      Is your Dad in the service?

      I nodded. Scots Greys, Palestine. I looked around the office to see drab written all over it.

      You’re just in time to join the meeting with the boss, Arthur Brooks. He’s the chief editor, a no-nonsense chap, but he’s been in meetings with Jerry all morning, we’re due in at any time.

      The idea that the Germans were taking a close interest in a newspaper startled me. I stood for a moment, sorting out which questions to ask, but we were interrupted, the man at the door motioning seriously.

      Let’s go. Paton said with much reluctance.

      In the smoky atmosphere of his main office, Arthur Brooks had little to say. He’d been under German dictation for two hours. We’ll still report the news, as usual, but the German High Command in the castle will edit after us.

      In all, nine men stood in the room listening to Brooks’ hesitant words.

      Paton broke the silence. So we’re being censored.

      David, there’s no use in crying about it.

      Arthur, for Christ’s sake, it’s what we do, we’re journalists! We don’t tell lies to the people!

      You’ll do as you’re damn-well told, or you’ll be out in the street! Brooks snapped back. I saw Paton physically recoil from his boss’ outburst. Your stories will be taken up to the castle every day. That’s the new rule.

      What? One of the other men objected. We go up there? What’s wrong they can’t work here?

      Barney, are you going to be stupid all your life? Brooks gave a wry grin. Do you want Germans working in the office? Listening to every word you say?

      David Paton fell immediately silent.

      So, from today, you tell lies. Every story better have a positive German slant, or they’ll shut us down. Get out, the lot of you. He snarled. Stories on my desk by eleven as usual.

      Back in the office, David Paton paced for five minutes, cursing under his breath. Then he stopped and placed his hands on the desk, leaning heavily, his knuckles whitening. All our work with the newspaper will be censored, James. That’s the reality of German rule.

      That’s a tough pill to swallow.

      He stared at me for a moment. I don’t like this any more than you, so we’d better just be friends and get on with it. If we refuse to do the job, they’ll just find someone else to take our places. He nodded, obviously finding some satisfaction getting it off his chest.

      What exactly are we to do? I asked.

      Humph. Didn’t you listen? We tell lies, dear boy, tell lies. He patted a pile of typed papers. "We get the raw stories up here in the attic. We cross off all negative German attributes, we

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